


Our Ladies of Wrath and Ruin

by chapstickaddict



Series: Prayer for the Unlikely [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, Rule 63, TW: brief thoughts of sexual violence, TW: briefly touches on emotional abuse, Tréville is a papa bear with all his kids, because they kick ass, but lots of happy endings for all, d'Artagnan somehow managed to gain three older sisters, kink meme fill, ladies being awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 22:20:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1566083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chapstickaddict/pseuds/chapstickaddict
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Prompt: The Musketeers are all openly female. King Louis is amused by the concept of a female guard, and once they've proven themselves all to be extremely competent, he allows it.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>They appeared on her doorstep late into the night, and Constance could tell they had been running through hell and back. The kohl that lined Porthos’ eyes were smudges instead of the steady lines she usually wore, and while Constance was used to seeing Aramis’ lips stained red she knew blood when she saw it. Athos’ gorgeous, wild hair that usually tumbled down her waist had been hacked short in jagged, ugly cuts from her shoulders to her chin. </p><p> </p><p>TW: Brief thoughts of sexual violence and emotionally abusive relationships</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Ladies of Wrath and Ruin

Olivia awoke to the sound of yelling. Raising her head from the cold wooden pew, she squinted out at the bright strip of light outlining the chapel doors down the aisle. Maybe it had just been a dream…she held her breath for a moment, but the yelling continued unabated. Someone was most decidedly strong-winded. 

Resolving to ignore it, she burrowed further into her brother's coat. After months of stumbling from town to town with barely a thought to her health or cleanliness, all her clothes were more the worse for wear, but she could not bring herself to part with the heavy, deep blue leather of Thomas’ favorite jacket. When she hugged it to herself, it would sometimes let her remember her little brother, adored and beloved by all. 

If it sometimes instead made her remember finding Thomas’ lifeless body with her beautiful, treacherous, charming, demonic husband standing over him, no one had to know that but her. The now familiar stab of guilt washed over her, making her curl up tighter under his jacket even as her hand scrambled for the bottle she knew she had left on the floor. After a moment, her fingers made contact with the delicate tinted glass and she sat up slightly to bring it to her mouth. 

She had not expected the abandoned chapel she had stumbled across to be so hospitable. She had taken the wine from a dusty stock room hidden behind the sacristy. She did not think God would mind her theft so much, since she was in more need of it than He. Taking a fortifying sip, she was just about to ease back into unconsciousness when a particularly shrill scream jerked her back into cold reality. She should have left it be, but something in her foggy mind prompted her to stumble to her feet. Her boots caught the hilt of the rapier she had taken from Thomas' room, and she strapped it on after a moment's consideration. She had always been better with it than Thomas, and after their father died he had often joked about gifting it to her along with proper lessons with real instructors. All levity, he later assured her. It would not do for a woman of her station to be able to best her husband with a blade. He had always said it so kindly, and it had twisted her heart harder and harder every time. 

André had promised her freedom from that, even if he had not told her the cost of it. 

The shouting got louder as she reached the chapel doors. As she peered out into the overgrown courtyard, she saw two women standing in the harsh evening light. One was dressed in a noble woman’s finery and red-faced from screaming while another stood barefoot in the mud, stripped down to her corset and underskirt. The noblewoman had a small retinue behind her, a gaggle of stable-hands or under butlers shuffling awkwardly as their mistress continued to shout. The barefoot one lounged with arms crossed over her barely concealed chest and looked unruffled by her situation. 

"And stay out, you harlot! You're no better than dock trollop! If you ever show your face here again, I’ll make sure every man here uses you like the whore you are! " 

"Puff around all you’d like, milady. It doesn't bother me in the slightest." 

That earned the nonchalant woman a slap to the face, and the look of barely masked pain that flashed across her lovely features had Olivia moving before she realized the odd taste on her tongue was rage.

"That is enough," she ordered, stepping between the two. She very determinedly ignored how the world spun as she did so, and concentrated on not swaying where she stood. "Cease your unseemly behavior. Are you a banshee to scream so at others?"

"Stay out of this, you drunken vagabond." 

Olivia blinked for a moment, stunned. She had never been spoken to like that. She could not say she liked it at all. 

In the span of a heartbeat, the thin hilt of a knife normally concealed by Thomas' jacket was in her hand, the sharp blade finding a home under the proud jut of the woman’s chin. 

"Leave now, before I take your penitence with your tongue," she warned, her voice soft and dangerous. She would probably regret this terribly later, but for now all she could feel was the flood of adrenaline and righteousness mixed with alcohol in her veins. Behind the noblewoman, the hired help of her estate squawked and flapped like chickens, but Olivia could not spot a fighter among them. They had been brought for show, and she had not missed their eyes flickering down to Thomas’ sword at her waist. She was also fairly sure she looked a mad demon in her current state. 

If they decided to rush her, she would be lost in a moment, but that was no matter. If her death came at the hands of a few cowardly peasants on a muddy backroad it was no less than she deserved right now. 

But her thoughts were for not. Considerably paler when she realized a rescue was not forthcoming, the noblewoman slowly backed away from her before slinking off in the direction of the grand house in the distance, her useless flock fluttering behind her. Olivia kept a white-knuckled grip on her knife as she watched to make sure the old bat was a fair distance away before an ungraceful snort drew her attention back. The woman she had stepped in front of was still behind her, a dainty smirk on her bow shaped lips as she watched Olivia with unreadable eyes. She stood even with Olivia, with delicate features and dancing eyes framed by thick lashes. Long sweeps of loose dark brown hair tumbled down her shoulders and back. Her olive skin was unblemished save for a small smattering of scars over her hands and a truly impressive love bite on the juncture of her shoulder, though goose bumps had begun to rise along her arms. 

Olivia shrugged off Thomas' jacket and offered it over. 

"It's not much, but it will keep you warm until we can find you something," she said, waving it at the other woman when all she received was a blank look. Hesitantly, the woman took the mass of leather and wool, shaking it out a bit as she draped it over her shoulders.

"I think I saw some old clothes boxed up in the narthex," Olivia commented, starting back for the chapel.

"I slept with her son," the other woman announced suddenly. Olivia looked over her shoulder to the stubborn, closed off expression on her face even as she wrapped herself up in Thomas' jacket. “He was lonely, and so very pretty. His mother won’t let him out of her sight.” 

There was no shame in the woman’s voice as she said this, and her chin was raised in a defiant tilt. She expected Olivia to scream at her like the mother hen had, she realized with a slight shock. 

"Did you enjoy it?" It was the only question Olivia could think to ask. She got a startled, but wicked grin in return. 

"Every moment of it.” 

“Then that’s the important part in the end, I suppose.” That had been one lesson André had taught her that she still valued. She did have the right to enjoy herself, no matter what her father or brother said. She returned to the chapel to begin digging through the abandoned boxes littering the floor by the entrance. After a few moments, the other woman joined her and helped shuffle through the deserted scraps. 

"This will do," she said after a few moments, rising to her feet as she unfolded a set of faded red robes. "And now to see if this place has a bath house."

"Are you so desperate to be clean?"

"Oh, it's not for me, my dove. The first step to making you human again is a nice long bath. Let us hope there's wood for a fire, or we'd be better off washing in the stream. I must say I despise cold baths."

Olivia knew it was foolishness to be embarrassed. She had been wondering for months, and knew the condition she was in. But standing next to this stunning, completely shameless and energetic woman, she felt a rising shame in her appearance. Shuffling her feet, she felt her face heat up as a blush overtook her skin.

Dexterous fingers entwined themselves in the loose, greasy strands of her hair as nails scraped against her scalp in a comforting gesture. 

"Not to fear, my dear. I must admit I've been in much worst states in my life. Nothing we can't fix." 

"Aye," Olivia found herself agreeing. 

"Do you have a name, darling?"

Olivia bit her tongue against the impulse to answer with her given name. Olivia was the one who submitted to her father's wishes, even though she knew she was better than his plans for her. The one who secretly practiced fencing against her brother, who valiantly never complained when she bested him time over time. The one who fell in love with a dark stranger who had left her brother dead and her heart broken under an ancient oak tree. Was she really that girl anymore?

God in Heaven, she was the Comtesse de la Fère now. The thought made her head spin. La Fère and the lands surrounding it had always belonged to Thomas. The idea that they now answered to her whims seemed laughable. 

"Athos," she replied after a moment, holding out her hand. It was grasped by a warm, calloused one as dancing eyes traced her face. 

"You can call me Aramis." 

Later, as Aramis helped her slowly untangle her matted hair and scrub the dust and mud from her body, Athos truly did feel human for the first time since Thomas had died. 

*

The nunnery had never felt right to Renée. She knew her parents had always wanted her behind the safety of high walls and religiously imposed conduct, but she had been bored out of her mind in a matter of days. A life full labor and prayer had left her lethargic and morose. She would have left sooner than she had, but she had been caught in bed with the mayor's son. That kind of thing, she had learned, made people think they had the right to lock her in a room and make sure she kept her legs together. 

The day she had finally been left alone in the gardens was the day she scaled the high stone wall and was gone. She left Renée behind her with the rest of her past and all the memories it contained. Aramis would have little need of them. 

Her soul belonged to God, but (at least to her) He had made it clear her body was hers to enjoy. 

She had wondered free as a bird until she picked up a sister. She had thought it would be constraining to travel with someone else, but Athos was different. She never judged Aramis for her choices in bedmates, or complained about her affectionate nature. She noticed everything and trusted nothing, though Aramis liked to think she had earned an exception on that front. She was a far better at swordplay than Aramis was, and ruthlessly forced her to practice once they both realized it.

She also had a knack for knowing when Aramis had gotten herself in over her head. Like just now.

"Three livres," the man offered, eying her up like a fresh piece of meat. Aramis usually did not disapprove of that look, because all manner of fun things could follow it, but the smell of wine was strong on him. He was also not very clean, and she liked to think her standards on that were not unachievable. His Red Guard clock was stained from food and blood alike, and it licked at Aramis like shadows of its master's arms. 

He also seemed to not understand personal space, she thought as he stepped even closer to her, pressing her up against the bar. 

"You couldn't afford me, friend," she commented, smiling. Laughter and merriment was the best way out of this situation with everyone’s dignity intact, though she saw Athos rising from her darkened corner. Her sister tended to keep her drinking to herself, watching from afar as Aramis played a room to her own tune, but she always seemed to know when to step in. Even across the room, Aramis could see her eyes, clear and angry. 

Aramis neatly sidestepped a pawing hand, but the brute's other arm kept her caught between him and the bar. All thoughts of civility vanished at that. As his greasy hand landed on her waist, she began evaluating how best to make him bleed. She did not have the range available to pull her rapier out, and drawing her pistols could lead to violence she could not necessarily control. Best to wait for Athos to intervene to get some space between them. 

Only, that plan got shot out of the water the moment Athos was grabbed around the waist by another Red Guard and pulled into his lap. Athos tended to favor breeches and her large, battered jacket over Aramis' odd combination of skirts and boots and shirts, and thus was not as easily identified. But with her hair unbound, it fell nearly to her waist and her shirt was just open enough to catch sight of her corset beneath it. Most times, Aramis wished her sister would embrace that side of herself more often; she looked so beautiful in her odd combination of vulnerability and deadliness. But now she bit back a curse as she watched Athos suddenly having to deal with her own drunken thug. 

"Four livres," the idiot offered, leaning in close. "And I show you just how much I think you're worth," his hand tried to sneak under her skirt just as she reached behind her for a nearly empty bottle of wine behind the bar. A face full of glass would teach him to keep his hands to himself. 

But before her hand could touch cool glass, the guard was promptly pulled off of her.

"Oi! Mind your manners," a deep, rich voice commanded as Aramis' new hero punched the guard square in the face. She cawed as the man went down, gaze alighting on a woman nearly a head taller than she was. Her skin was dark and dusky, her vibrant eyes rings with kohl. She was dressed in leathers and rags, and her boots had definitely seen better days, but her eyes cackled with inner strength; her shoulders rippled with it. She looked like a warrior goddess of ancient legend brought to life in a dank tavern on the wrong side of Paris. 

Aramis could not help herself: she stretched up on tiptoe to drop a light kiss on the woman's cheek. "Absolutely marvelous," she commented, giggling as she watched a blush rise on the skin she had touched. A strangled yelp told her Athos had finally lost her temper behind them so she turned to deal with that. 

"Don't run off, my lovely!" she called over her shoulder as she ran over to her sister. "I would adore a moment of your time later!" 

Athos had one guard pinned under the heel of her boot, another quivering at the point of her rapier, but Aramis had to slice through a third coming at her with a wooden chair. The ensuing bar brawl was the most fun she had had all week. 

She did end up shooting one through the knee--he had nearly stabbed her warrior goddess in the back with a nasty looking stiletto. That was just not playing fair. Though she was proud of the shot. God had blessed her with a splendid eye and a steady hand. 

A Spanish pirate named Miguel had taught her to shoot years ago, his thick hands circling her waist and his lips brushing against her shoulder in delicious distraction. He had meant it as a joke, a simple jest to pass the time between adventures, but after her fourth bull's eye he had stopped laughing. 

After her tenth, he had begun to get upset. 

He had taken his pistols back after that, muttering about beginners luck and easy shots. Aramis did not mind: she took them back that night as she crept barefoot and rumpled out of his room, leaving him to his dreams while she found new ones. 

Her next beau, the younger brother of a lesser baron in southern France, unintentionally gifted her with her first musket. The next one, a Turkish sellsword, had an excellent rapier that had fit her hand perfectly and had made a splendid impromptu present. The one after that, a trader from West Africa, had been relieved of a pair of fine knives that were both ornamental and practical. Her men were thoughtful like that. 

As the dust settled, Aramis gave a quick clean to those very same knives and took a step back to survey the damage. Athos had managed to find another wine bottle, and was currently shoving limbs out of the way so she could righten a small round table near the back. Aramis held out a hand, letting her sister interlock their fingers briefly. Over the months it had become their shorthand for letting the other know she was hale and whole and as safe as could reasonably be expected. But past them, her savior already had one foot out the door. 

"Don't go, my lovely!" she called out cheerfully and the other woman froze. Casting a look over her shoulder, Aramis made sure to meet it with a smile. She knew a sister-in-arms when she saw one, and she was not in the habit of letting something she wanted slip through her fingers. "Come have a drink with us!" 

Athos shot her a look but did not dispute the invitation. She even found a trio of goblets from among the wreckage at her feet. A few strands of hair had tumbled into her eyes, and Aramis absentmindedly tucked them behind Athos' ear. Her sister was a complete disaster at fixing her own hair, so Aramis usually took care of it for her. But that was for later. 

She stayed standing until her goddess had come back into the tavern, wariness and caution outlining her every step. Smiling her most disarming smile, Aramis linked arms with her and steered her the rest of the way, making sure to radiate sunshine and virtue in every motion. She could feel tension running tight through the other woman, and so she worked to ease it the best way she knew how: with smiles and laughter and gentle touches guiding her where she wanted. 

The majority of her mind instantly diverted as she caught sight of a well-made hat with bright feathers and a wide brim resting on a completely unsuitable head. It was just begging to belong to her. 

"I like that hat," Aramis announced to the world at large. She plucked it off the unconscious man's head with her free hand, settling it among her dark waves at a jaunty angle."How do I look?"

"As stunning as always," Athos replied, smiling slightly. Aramis counted the whole matter as a win for that. Keeping the hat on, she nudged her hip against her goddess', prodding her toward an empty chair. It did nothing to move the other woman, but she did smile indulgently at Aramis as she sat. She had a gorgeous smile.

"I'm Athos," her sister cut in before Aramis could launch full force into her argument on why their newest sister needed to join them. "This butterfly masquerading as a person is Aramis. Thank you for the assistance. You know your way around a bar fight." 

"Been in plenty of 'em in my time," the woman responded, taking the goblet Athos offered her. Aramis instantly resolved to trick her into speaking as much as possible. Her voice was a tantalizing blend of deep, resonating tones and a particular accent she could not quite place. "Call me Porthos." 

"Excellent," Aramis said. "Now that that's settled, come have adventures with us."

Porthos blinked at her. Aramis met her confusion with blinding encouragement, letting her eyes trace the faint scar that split her goddess' eyebrow down to the apple of her cheek. 

"I..." 

"Please excuse my sister," Athos said in a well-practiced tone. "I believe she forgets not everyone agrees with her plans for them."

"You did. Tell me you don't want to have adventures with this glorious goddess, Athos."

Athos gave her a flat look she was long familiar with, though it startled a laugh out of Porthos. 

"What do you do?" 

"Anything we want," Aramis answered immediately. "We go where we want, make money as it comes to us, and enjoy who we want. Doesn't that sound fantastic?"

"I'm…not usually the type of woman people want around," But Porthos sounded unsure of her words, and her eyes were clinging to the two of them like a lifeline. Aramis could see she was not happy with what she had. Few who shared kindred spirits with her were. 

"Oh, don't concern yourself with that, my sweet. You've found yourself in the most excellent company of a brazen whore and a fallen noblewoman. You'll hardly be the outcast."

She continued to smile at Porthos, even as she felt Athos twitch beside her. 

"You know about that?" Athos whispered fiercely, eyes wide. 

“Oh, my dove,” Aramis said, tilting her head just enough to spy her quiet sister through her eyelashes. “I’ve known you were noble born from the moment you thought an appropriate response to someone insulting you was to hold a knife to their throat. Normal folk tend to respond in other, less violent ways.” 

"Normal folk sound perfectly dull."

"They do indeed," Aramis agreed, dropping a quick kiss to her sister’s cheek in apology for startling her. Once Athos pushed her away half-heartedly, she leaned over the table to catch Porthos' eye.

"Athos doesn't like talking about her past," she said, sotto voce. "Nor do I, really. I care not for the past. Our futures, though. That I have a vested interest in." 

"…I could be interested in that, too." 

And just like that, Aramis had all the family she would ever need. It was more than Renée could have ever hoped to achieve. 

*

Her mother had named her Isabella, a name she thought would raise her daughter above the gutter she had been born in. She discarded it on her mother's grave and dawned the name Porthos instead. It fit much better. 

Flea had shaken her head in amused resignation. Charon had rolled his eyes and called her Isabella just to annoy her until she had punched him hard enough to knock a tooth out. They had been young then, and still so naive even for their surroundings. Three tiny scamps running from thrill to thrill without a thought to the future.

The Cour des Miracles changed a lot of that. It had been glorious at first. Porthos thought she had finally found the home she had been dreaming of. But that place changed people. Charon had become more assertive, demanding higher shares for himself from the heists they pulled and taking risker offers at every turn. And Flea had been right there with him, pushing for the people she was rapidly seeing as her own. Porthos backed them both to the hilt, but she could tell her heart was not in it the same way theirs seemed to be. They were satisfied with that life and the way things were. She felt guilty for wanting something else, but she often caught herself daydreaming of a life beyond their cluster of streets. 

A disgraced priest who smelled of cheap wine and sickness had offered to teach her to read in exchange for letting his hands explore under her shirt. She had broken his nose and made him teach her anyway. As knowledge unfolded before her, she realized she wanted more. She had always wanted more. 

She took her leave of the Cour des Miracles one night without a word. Part of her had hoped the others would notice and follow her, convince her that her fears and doubts were groundless, that this was where she belonged. But another part, quickly gaining ground, had screamed at her to run as fast as she could and never turn back. 

For years she had wondered with only herself for company. But the voice that had urged her to run so long ago had called to her again as two pairs of eyes watched her over a broken tavern table surrounded by the unconscious bodies of lesser men. This is where you belong, it had yelled over and over. This was the family you wanted. 

Porthos awoke to the feeling of light on her face. Shifting just enough to peer out the tiny window above her, she squinted into the fresh dawn light that filtered slowly through the shades. It could not have been more than a few minutes past sunrise. She blinked to clear the sleep away, enjoying the feel of a real bed underneath her. Their last adventure had taken them far north in pursuit of a runaway goldsmith apprentice with sticky fingers, and the only bedding there had been snow and cold stone. Porthos was fairly sure her bones were still angry at her about that. 

A soft sigh drew her attention to the two warm bodies in bed with her. Aramis and Athos were still sleeping, twined around her like a pair of overly affectionate cats. Porthos could not help but smile indulgently at them. Aramis was a flagrant cuddler, hugging close to her sisters to leech their body heat and to hear their steady heartbeats in her dreams, but Athos liked to pretend she had more self control. She would start out as a tight ball at the edge of the bed and slowly curl around the other two throughout the night like a piece of ivy. By morning they were both sprawled across Porthos in a warm tangle of dark hair and soft skin. 

They had each made their own attempts at separate quarters a few times, however it had never seemed to work out well. They found the only way any of them could sleep through the night was with the other two at her back, protecting them and being protected in turn. Occasionally, Aramis would wonder away to a paramour's chambers, or Athos would drink in the taverns all night, but they all ended up back in their little collection of rooms in the end.

Stretching carefully, Porthos slowly shifted limbs off her. She gently sat up, and beside her Aramis grumbled into her pillow. 

"Good morning, lazybones," Porthos greeted as Aramis cracked an eye open to glare at her. All she got in return was a string of grumbled curses as her sister buried her face back into the sheets and reached out a grasping hand for Athos. Leaving them to twine around each other, Porthos rose from the bed, mindful not to jostle them as she went. She dressed in near silence, keeping one eye on her sisters the whole time even as she dug her hat out from beneath the bed and her shirt from under Athos' heavy jacket. 

Boots in hand, Porthos stopped by them before leaving. Both of her sisters had already fallen back sleep, neither of them early risers like she was. She gently ran her knuckles down Aramis' arm where it wrapped around Athos' waist and pet back a strand of Athos' wild hair that seemed to spill everywhere even when confined to a braid during the night. Satisfied they were settled back into rest, she slipped out the door and into the street, pausing only to tug her boots on at the stoop. 

Her sisters normally avoided the dawn as much as possible: Aramis became waspish and vindictive when woken before she was ready to be woken and Athos sunk so far into herself when she under slept that Porthos half expected her to melt into the shadows themselves. She did not mind her sisters vendetta against the early light, but she loved daybreak. The simple peace of the morning was undeniable. 

She allowed her feet to wonder, taking in the smells and sound of the morning market that twisted its way through winding streets and down back alleys. The main square was packed with merchants just setting up their stalls as a smattering of people picked through their wares. Just beyond them, the fresh smell of bread was slipping out of the open windows of the local bakery, making her mouth water with thoughts of breakfast.

Unprompted, Porthos let her eyes drift toward the shadows. She could just make out a figure lurking in the gloomy back alley, and even from this distance she knew he had footsteps like a cat and eyes like a predator. She did not approach him, but when his gaze flickered her way she made sure to meet it with a wide, toothy smile. The satisfaction she felt as he scurried away was exhilarating. When she and her sisters had initially settled into the neighborhood, she had spent the first few weeks conning street hustlers and breaking the fingers of pickpockets. She had found the seedy taverns and brothels and the men that lurked in them: men who would see women like Athos or Aramis unescorted in the streets and think they would make attractive targets for their vices. And, using every trick the Cour de Miracles had taught her, she had made them bleed. She did that over and over until they had learned her face, and fled in painful memory of her smile. 

Now she roamed her territory unencumbered, and did not fear for her sisters' safety when they were away from her. She considered it time well spent.

She picked up fresh bread for breakfast, and wondered deeper in amongst the stalls. The market was becoming more active, and she started weaving in and out among the crowd to continue her wonderings. She liked to think she possessed no small amount of skill at moving through a crowd without collision, so when someone ran hard into her shoulder it startled her enough to reach for the knife Aramis had long ago convinced her to carry inside the waist of her jacket.

The man was obviously stumbling home from a night at the tavern, and he could barely stand straight without wavering. His eyes were unfocused, and his entire frame appeared to be shaking slightly. Porthos did not wrinkle her nose at the smell wafting off him, but it was a close thing. 

"Pardon," she muttered, attempting to step around him, however he stumbled backward to end up in front of her again. 

"My, your a big'in, aren't ya?" the drunkard commented, openly ogling her chest. "I like 'em big." Porthos felt her temper spark as her hands curled into fists, but she bit down hard on her tongue to reign it in. The man reached out to paw at her, but his wine-drenched state meant his fingers barely brushed her shoulder before he overbalanced and tumbled sideways. Rolling her eyes, Porthos planted a hand on the side of his face and shoved, pushing him the rest of the way into the gutter where he promptly began snoring. 

She debated kicking him while he was down, but knew it would not help the sudden burning feeling within her. She could take on the whole of Paris with only her fists and her blades, but a few meager words could still leave her hot and flustered. 

A small, petty part of Porthos envied her sisters' slimmer, lighter builds. They could easily slip on a few layers and hide their figures from the world. No shirt on earth could shroud Porthos like that. Her curves refused to be masked, no matter how many binds and constrains she placed on them. Men and women both took them as an invitation to comment (and the more daring ones to touch) which had made her even more determined to hide them from the world. She bound her breasts down ruthlessly, ignoring the painful twinges in her ribs and back as well as the almost desperate gasps her lungs grabbed at whenever she released them at night. 

When Aramis had found out, she had taken it upon herself to hide all of Porthos' binds and breast bands. It was the angriest she had ever been with one of her sisters, and their ensuing fight had sent Athos into the corner with a large bottle of brandy.

"I simply believe there are better ways to achieve what you want than by suffocating yourself every day. They do not fit, my love, and they are hurting you. At this rate you'll break a rib trying to breath!"

"Strap a pair of melons to your chest for a day and tell me that ain't a preferable outcome," Porthos had snarled, even as she blushed a bright red. God but she hated her body: why could it not do what she wanted? 

It was a foolish question, but Porthos had asked it many times in her life. 

"It's not a safe-,"

“’s not your concern-,"

"Porthos," Athos had called, voice quiet and tired. She looked the worst of them all, for all she had been curled up in the corner and determined to ignore them. "Let her help. You know she can." 

Part of Porthos, the part that had refused to rely on anyone since her mother, raged against the idea. She had gotten on just fine before her sisters had entered her life, and she was just fine now. But she could also hear the stressed worry under Aramis' loud words. Could see the deep concern in Athos' eyes.

"Alright," she had conceded, frustrated at being overruled. But her anger stayed at a low simmer for the rest of the evening. She had made Athos sleep in the middle that night while she tucked herself up against the wall, counting her breaths and pretending to sleep as she fought for control of herself. 

However her anger had not stopped Aramis from returned to their rooms the next day, her arms laden down with dozens of different packages. She forced Porthos into corset after corset, hands in constant motion as she tested fit, tightness, and comfort. She had even made Athos spar with her to test out the flex and durability. 

"This one works fine," Porthos commented, panting slightly as Athos put her through her paces. The corsets Aramis had discarded lay in a heap at the foot of the bed. At first, Porthos had been embarrassed to be so unclothed, even around her sisters. But quiet, smart, lovely Athos had simply stripped down to her own chemise and corset and forced Porthos to concentrate more on her footwork than her embarrassment. 

"No," Aramis vetoed, fingers already working to unlace it. "Too large. Even if we tighten it as far as we can you'll be fighting with it all day."

Finally, Aramis found one she was satisfied with. Porthos had allowed her decision to stand simply to be done with the entire matter, though she really could not tell the difference. She had shrugged on the shirt Athos had thrown at her, and proceeded to forget the whole matter altogether. 

It had not been until she had been stripping down for bed that night that she remembered she had been even wearing one at all. She had stared down at her contained body, completely stunned. She took a deep breath experimentally, watching as her chest raised and lowered with none of the usual pain she had come to associate with the action. Across the room, Aramis' grin could have set the devil's tail on fire. 

"Not. A word," Porthos had muttered, smiling in spite of herself. Aramis simply kissed her on the cheek and circled in arm around her waist. 

"I'd never dream of gloating, my lovely." Athos let out an unladylike snort, but said nothing as she curled up on her side of the bed. 

Porthos had not understood it then but she did now. Aramis could not stand to see any of them in pain, especially when she could do something about it. Porthos was not scared of pain; she had lived with it her whole life. But with her sisters, she did not have to. 

Porthos considered her morning explorations fairly ruined by her encounter with the drunkard and began circling back toward their lodgings. If she moved faster than before, or made less eye contact, well that was her business and no one else's. 

Her sisters were up when she walked through the door. Aramis had her fingers buried deep into Athos' hair, carefully braiding it into submission while Athos slowly sliced into an apple with her knife. Her half-lidded eyes and cautious movements told Porthos she was still half asleep. They both seemed so perfectly at ease, and Porthos just leaned against the door to watch them for a moment. 

"Good walk?" Aramis asked, untangling one of her hands to snag a piece of apple from Athos' unresisting fingers. Her eyes flickered up over to Porthos, holding the kind of warm acceptance she had only ever dreamed of seeing directed at her. She knew if she got Athos to open her eyes a bit more and focus, she would find the same look there. 

As Porthos stared at them both, she felt everything else wash away. The bumbling opinions of a drunken craven did not matter, nor did the condescending words that had followed her through the Cour de Miracles. Neither had the countless gazes that had dismissed or belittled her because of her size or her skin. The only two people who mattered to her were in front of her. 

"Aye," she said, reaching out to take the knife from Athos before she managed to slice her fingers off. Her sisters had never seemed to get the hang of mornings. 

*

 _Bring them_ , he had been ordered. The command burned at him. Tréville had been a soldier long enough to know how to reign in his temper but even with that skill he could feel it biting at his heels in demand. He kept it contained until he had been dismissed from the presence of his king and queen, but once he closed the door behind him it immediately searched for the first available target.

“Bélanger. Géroux,” he barked, calling for his two most senior lieutenants. Both men stood at attention outside the rooms set aside for the royal couple and jumped at the sound of his voice. Good. 

"The road to this inn was supposedly cleared in preparation for his Majesty's progress," he started quietly, letting his men pale under his gaze. “Will one of you please explain to me how a group of assailants not only escaped that inspection but made it within striking distance of the King?"

"The Red Guard assured us-,” Géroux began, never one to think his words through. 

"The day I trust a Red Guard with the safety of their Majesties is the day they put me in the ground!" he roared, silencing Géroux. His men should have known better. The King should never have been under fire, let alone saved by three shadows he did not know or trust. He let his anger seep into his men for a few moments more before turning on his heel and heading to the tap room down the hall.

"Sir, they…they're not there,” Bélanger warned. 

Tréville turned, the fires of hell burning in his eyes. "And where are they?" 

"Down at the river,” Bélanger replied immediately. 

"I told you to keep them inside and away from everyone." 

"They-they wanted to clean off. We tried to stop them, sir! But-but the giant one broke Lamar's wrist when he tried to keep them here!"

Tréville gave up. He dismissed his men with a wave of his hand and ventured forth in a blazing fury. 

He found them easily enough. Victore and Roux stood at attention near the end of a well-beaten trail, sweltering under the steely gaze of a beautiful, olive skinned woman several feet away from them. Her boots were planted in the dirt and her dark hair tumbling around her. She wore a faded red skirt that stopped high on her calves and dark, heavy leggings under it that tucked into her solid boots. An embroidered purple corset was on display over a close fitting blue shirt, and a be-feathered hat rested on a roguish tilt over her thick waves of hair. The long brown jacket he had seen her in earlier had been thrown over a nearby branch, putting the many weapons holsters she wore over her torso on better display. 

She smiled brightly at Tréville as he approached, but her eyes were as hard as diamonds. He was about to order her to move when he saw, tucked behind the folds of her skirt, her hand wrapped tightly around the stock of a loaded pistol. He felt his apprehension rise as his men tensed next to him, ready to act if he ordered it. Not even hours ago, he had watched this woman shoot the eye out of a bandit's skull from near one hundred paces, and knew it to be more than a lucky shot. He had made sure his men had relieved all three of them of their weapons after the fight: how she had gotten one back he had no idea. 

There was a bend in the river behind her, mostly hidden by overgrowth and leaves. Just beyond, Tréville could hear soft voices and splashing. His eyes flickered that way and back, watching as the woman’s smile turned rigid. 

“I don’t mind your boys taking a peek at me,” she said, her voice casual even as her body remained tighter than a wire. “After all, who am I to complain about a few stolen glances in good fun. But my sisters are a more private sort. I thought I’d remind your boys to keep their eyes to themselves.”

“Mademoiselle-,”

“Just Aramis. Mademoiselle makes it sound like I couldn’t shoot the buckle off your belt if the fancy took me.”

Tréville fought back the sudden wave of amusement that overtook him despite his anger. It would not do to encourage her—or any of them, for that matter. 

“Monsieur de Tréville, Captain of the Musketeers. Their Majesties have summoned you.” Well, her Majesty had. She seemed especially keen to meet three young women who could more than hold their own against seasoned professional. The Cardinal had spent most of their audience encouraging her, taking a sardonic delight in mocking the failure of Tréville’s Musketeers. 

“My sisters are almost finished.”

“Their Majesties are not used to being made to wait.” 

“They will if the alternative is presenting ourselves caked in the blood and guts of their would-be assassins along with half the mud in France.”

With anyone else that would have been taken as impertinence, but her words were light and her smile charming, giving the moment levity. Tréville could not help but admit he was intrigued. With the effort of long practice, he released his grip on his temper. He had made it up the ranks of the Musketeers and the court by knowing when to spot an opportunity and when to take advantage of it. And when to let useless pride go. He let some of the aggression bled out of his face and eased his shoulders out of the hard slant they had worked themselves into. Aramis mirrored him, though her grip remained firm on her pistol. 

Looking back on it in years to come, Tréville would never know how the idea possessed him. And what a foolish idea it was; the amount of stress these three would end up giving him would surely drive him to an early grave. 

“Roux,” he ordered over his shoulder. “Give me your sword.” The red-headed man tensed at the command, but handed over his slim rapier at Tréville’s hard look. Flipping it easily, Tréville held it out to Aramis hilt first, making the challenge clear in his face. She stared at him for a moment, and he could see her eyes struggling not to widen. 

“Something tells me you like to show off,” he commented, tempting her forward. The grin that crossed her face was quick and sharp. 

“What about them?” she asked, nodding towards Roux and Victore. 

“They won’t interrupt,” he said, making sure the order in his voice was clear to his men. “Or sneak away. Your sisters’ virtue is safe,” he added on at Aramis’ unconvinced look. 

“It’s not their virtue I was worried about so much as your boys' skins,” she explained as she tucked the pistol into her sash and took the rapier. It was too big for her frame, but she adapted to it with little trouble, her grip steady as she slowly rotated her wrist. Tréville waited until she had become comfortable and took up position. 

“ _En garde_ ,” he announced, lunging forward. He expected her to meet him head on, but instead she sidestepped his attack and tried to kick his knees in. 

“Aramis!” came a deep feminine voice behind the bushes. 

“Butterflies!” Aramis called back, gracefully dodging around Tréville. It seemed to be a code of sorts among them, since nothing else followed her words. Circling him, she tested his guard in a few places, but never stayed still long enough for him to do the same. He managed to catch her skirt a few times, leaving slashes and holes in the fabric but once he took a brutal hit to his chest he realized she was using it to keep him distracted like a bull-fighter against a raging beast. After that, he switched to targeting her sleeves and even succeeded in knocking that ridiculous hat from her dark waves. He landed a few good strikes, but the cuts and bruises forming on his own skin reminded him that he had far from dominated their bout. She was an eager fighter, fast and confident on her feet, though Tréville could tell her excitement overtook her at times. 

He called an end to their duel after a few minutes, panting lightly as he stepped back. Aramis stayed alert while he rested, obviously not sure if he meant to attack again. It made him think even better of her; he had put many of his men in the dirt because they always let their guard down too soon. 

“You’re good,” he admitted. The complement came easily, since it was true. If even half his men were as skilled as she clearly was, he would never lose a campaign. 

“Athos is better,” she admitted freely, finally lowering the point of her sword. 

“Which one is that?” 

“My tiny sister with the bulky blue jacket,” Aramis described, and Tréville recalled a small shadow who had managed to catch a bandit in the neck with a wayward dagger in the midst of the skirmish. The other one, dark-skinned and towering over the others, had kept her weapons sheathed and instead had engaged with close range strikes and a liberal amount of dirty tricks. 

Pushing those thoughts aside, he bent down to retrieve Aramis' fallen hat. She smiled when he handed it back with a flourish--a flirtatious, whimsical smile that he was willing bet made many people go weak at the knees. Seems that her blades and pistols were not her only weapons. 

There was a rustling behind her, and the dark skinned woman peeked out from around the bushes.

"Aramis, I've no idea how you manage to get Athos' hair to do that twist in the back-,"

"It doesn't matter-," came another voice, slightly muffled.

"Porthos, my lovely," the smile she had given Tréville paled in comparison to the one she turned on her sister. "Come meet my new friend."

“Can't say I get along with your type of friends," the one called Porthos replied, eyeing Tréville with obvious wariness. Even under a close-fitting, thick leather jacket and loose shirt, he could see the bulk of defined muscles in her arms, shoulders, and torso. Her hair was wrapped in a dark patterned bandana, keeping the tight curls away from her face and showing her scars to the world. Like Aramis, he could see numerous empty sheathes around her torso, including one for a schiavona blade. A good choice for her build.

He pointed to where Victore stood behind him, silent and brooding as a mountain.

"How many hits would it take you to bring him down?" he asked, curious. Porthos let her eyes flicker toward Victore and back, wariness bleeding into exasperation.

"Not many."

"Show me," he commanded. For a moment, he worried that he may have overstepped himself with her as her saw her mouth set in a frown, but her eyes held the spark of a challenge.

"Sir-,"

"Victore, if you're scared of a few blows, it's a wonder I ever sponsored your commission," Tréville snapped. That got his man moving, even as a grinning Aramis tugged Porthos out from behind the ferns. She planted a light kiss on her sister's cheek, and winked at Tréville.

"Show no mercy, sister mine. Athos, my dove, put that brush down or so help me-," she called as she disappeared around the bend.

There was still an alertness in Porthos' eyes as she came forward, but it was for Tréville, not for Victore. In fact, she did not seem at all concerned about her opponent.

"I won't be gentle," Victore warned as he warmed up his shoulders. Tréville barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Victore’s tact had always been lacking.

Porthos did not reply with words, even as she finally looked away from Tréville to evaluate him. But she met his eye directly, leaned forward just enough to invade his personal space, and spat at his feet. Tréville watched as Victore flushed red and reached forward to grab at her.

He was not taking the bout seriously, Tréville noticed. He knew there was a reason he never considered giving the man greater responsibility within the regiment. So he did not feel too terrible as Porthos stepped inside his reach and landed a series of rapid blows to his ribcage. Victore wrenched her away from him by the back of her jacket, but that just allowed her to grab at his wrist and twist out of his grip. She kept a strict hold on his elbow with one hand as she ducked around him to take out his knee with a swift kick and force him into the dirt. With one hand planted on the back of his neck, the other pinning his arm pinned behind him, and her own knee on the base of his spine, she stayed firmly on top of him as he thrashed and cursed under her.

Tréville let the situation carry on for a bit before stepping in and offering Porthos a hand up. As she took it, he was not surprised to feel the strength in her hand under her glove.

“Well done,” he commented as Victore groaned pitifully at his feet. His hard meeting with the ground had driven the breath from his lungs. “He should not have underestimated you.”

“Wouldn’t've matter if he hadn't,” she replied. Taking her in, Tréville saw a lot of familiar traits on an unfamiliar face. Just like she had with Victore, she looked Tréville straight on and refused to secede her space to him. She was tall enough to see over him and nearly as broad. He did not see one inch of give or deference in her. He had seen that trait before in his men who had suffered early and deeply, and who had been given little help from others. And they were all the same: they learned to fend for themselves, or they died young. Tréville’s heart twisted in his chest as, this close, he could make out the faint shadows of a medley of scars over her skin. “I still would’a stomped him.”

“I have no doubt,” he said. Relaxed and with no expectations, Porthos seemed as cheerful as her sister, with a smile that lit up her face and an energetic feel about her. It was good to know her harsh life had not destroyed her spirit. “And I believe you have a third?”

“Athos!” Porthos called over her shoulder. “Just give up and let Aramis do it! We ain’t got all day!”

Grumbling became audible behind the bend and Tréville waved Roux forward as Porthos went to collect her wayward sisters.

“Take him back to the inn,” he ordered, motioning to a still groaning Victore.

“Sir, we cannot leave you in the presence of such women-,”

“Go,” he commanded harshly, not bothering to address the rest of their foolish concerns. He ensured they had gone limping off toward the inn before turning back to his three ladies as they rounded the bend.

Athos was smaller than her sisters, but would never be mistaken for a lady of the court. A heavy blue leather jacket was cinched at her waist and rolled up at the sleeves, and her thick mass of dark hair was drawn up in a tight braid high on her head. Her skin was pale, almost wain, and her eyes seemed to be in constant motion as she took him in. Her clothes were worn but well made and her weapon sheathes were not hidden around her body like Aramis’ were, but rather on clear display like Porthos’.

Tréville also pegged her for a noblewoman the moment she stepped into the clearing. She had the baring of one who generally expected the world to do as she commanded it, as well as the subtle hint of bloodlust lingering one the edges if her orders were not complied with. The courtiers at court were pale shadows of that, but the war-tried barons and comtes located on the southern boarder of France who had spent years at war with Spain had a similar presence. She also, he noticed as her eyes traced his uniform, recognized his rank, which told him she came from a family familiar with a solider’s life. Unprompted, his mind started flipping through possible options for who she was.

“She tells me you know your way around a sword,” he commented, flicking his hand toward Aramis.

“I do,” Athos replied bluntly. In her, Tréville could not see the type of the hubris he often saw in his young and cocky recruits, only a confidence born of utter assuredness. Definitely the daughter of a high-born soldier.

“Excellent. Then you should be able to best me sooner than Aramis did,” he challenged. Athos shot Aramis a glare that slid right off the other before stepping forward and taking Roux’s rapier from him.

The next few moments were a blur for Tréville. His mind returned to him as he found himself staring up at the point of Roux’s sword from his place in the dirt, Athos’ expressionless stare drilling into him behind it. Tréville blinked a few times as Aramis and Porthos laughed in the background.

“Told you she was better,” Aramis called when Athos stepped away. Tréville pushed himself onto his elbows, and took the hand she offered him. His wrist was throbbing, and the back of his calf ached in a way that meant a bruise was already forming there. Athos continued to stare at him like a cat would stare at a mouse hole, waiting for any hint of his next move.

Morbidly curious, he took up his position again. This time, Athos danced the tip of her rapier down the side of his own, the screech of metal on metal ringing in the air. He tested her guard like he had Aramis’, and ended up at her sword point every time. She even managed to dump him into the dirt twice more. Tréville would not admit he was amazed, but he was close to it.

Finally, he took a step back and saluted to signal the end of their match.

“How are you all with firearms?”

Athos and Porthos pointed at Aramis in unison, who cocked a hip and grinned winningly. The pistol she had managed to obtain from Lord only knew where was still in her sash, so he had her draw it as he dug in his purse for a large silver coin.

“Don’t tense up,” he ordered as he watched her shoulders bunched. She rolled her eyes at him, but did relax as he flipped the coin into the air.

There was a loud bang and a ringing silence. When Tréville picked the coin back up from the dirt, there was a large dent in the heavy metal. By the time he had straightened, his decision had been made.

“I believe we’ve kept their Majesties waiting long enough,” he commented, turning back to the inn. He did not need to see if his ladies followed--he knew they were curious enough to trail after him.

He could feel the inquisitive gazes of his men following them as he led his ladies through the inn. There was a simmering hostility as well; his men had not appreciated being out classed by three unknown women. That could cause some bumps in his impromptu plan, but situations like this were never simple. He would combat that once the dust had settled. 

Their Majesties had settled themselves in a large sitting room, the King listening with half an ear to to one of his courtiers while the Queen busied her eyes with a small leather-bound book. Tréville heard hurried whispers behind him, and when he glanced over his shoulder he saw that Athos had stepped in front of her sisters like a lioness before her cubs. Her face could have been made of stone for all the emotion she was letting out. 

“Ah, Tréville,” King Louis interrupted the nattering courtier, face alighting with the prospect of new entertainment. “You reappear at last.”

Queen Anne’s eyes came up and immediately honed in on his three ladies. Her Majesty was not prone to emotional outbursts or wearing her thoughts on her face like her husband, but Tréville had never seen her eyes warm the way they did in that moment. He surely had a strong ally in her. 

Which was good to know, as at that moment Richelieu emerged from the shadows where he had been lurking. Tréville did not hate the Cardinal—the man consistently put the needs of France above all else, even his own. There was respect in that. But that did not mean Tréville had to get along with him. And they had engaged in enough fights for Tréville to know when one was brewing between them. 

“And our mysterious rescuers,” Queen Anne added. “Come forward, ladies.” 

Porthos could not contain the snort that came at that, even as Aramis drove an elbow into her side. Athos stepped forward and executed a graceful curtsey that, while completely at odds with her battered jacket and muddy boots, firmly solidified Tréville’s suspicions of her noble birth. Over them, he caught Queen Anne’s eye and nodded once. Her lips turned upward just enough to tell Tréville they were on the same page. Now to convince the rest of the room...

“Your Majesties,” Athos greeted, her voice steady. “May I have the pleasure of introducing myself and my sisters.”

King Louis did not seem interested in introductions, but Queen Anne repeated each of their names as she tied it to their faces. In the background, Richelieu watched them with a serpent’s enduring stare and said nothing. 

“Are those your real names?” she asked gently. Tréville did not wince at the tone, but it was a near thing. Gentle was for court flowers and timid chambermaids, not three warriors who had seen bloodshed. But Porthos smiled at the queen, oddly shy in her attention, and Aramis’ face lit up when she noticed. Tréville thought that was interesting. 

“No, your Majesty.” Athos replied bluntly. “Our families have no interest in owning us, so we claim each other as sisters and say no more."

“How,” King Louis started in a tone that seemed both apathetic and intrigued at the same time. “Do three young women such as yourselves end up fending off rouges who gave my best men struggle? Certainly women of your calibre could find other opportunities in our fair France that do not include staining your hands with such sordid affairs.” 

“We make no claims to glory or honor, your Majesty,” Athos explained in a toneless voice, even as Tréville watched Porthos’ face twitch behind her. Aramis looked unabashedly bored with the entire affair, though her eyes did narrow at the King’s words. “We simply follow the paths God intended for us, and pray we do his work diligently. In all other matters, we of course humbly submit ourselves to you.” 

Pretty words, Tréville thought. It seemed a terrible lose considering she did not mean a breath of it. Porthos was still as unbending as she had been facing off against Victore, and Aramis’ attention was flying to every corner of the room rather than focusing on them. Even Athos held herself in a way that spoke of clear determination to do exactly what she thought was best, no more and no less. 

“With respect to your question, your Majesty,” Athos continued in completely false deference. "The innkeeper was letting us sleep in the barn in exchange for cleaning away the local riffraff that had been bothering him. Your attackers attempted to infiltrate through it and ran into us. We were separated during the fighting. Porthos was carried into the fighting, so Aramis and I followed. We found each other once they had already engaged your men so we simply fought to free ourselves.” 

"You were defending each other," the Queen concluded, even as her eyes locked on Tréville in excitement. "If what you managed to do was in defense of each other, I shudder to imagine what you all could do in defense of the crown." 

"Your Majesty," Richelieu finally broken, and Tréville came to quick attention as he was called to action. 

"Do not interrupt me,” Queen Anne ordered, her voice never rising above a mellow tone. She turned back to Athos, who’s eyes had widened at the sudden tension. More maybe it was at the realization of what was about to happen. "The Musketeers need the very best to protect the King. We are looking at the very best, gentlemen.” 

“I-,” Athos started, looking shocked. 

“I could not agree more, your Majesty,” Tréville tossed in before she could finish and ruin his nicely aligned plan. Richelieu barely spared him a glance before turning back to the royal couple.

“Sire, you will be a laughingstock-,” 

“I think they would be marvelous jewels in your court,” Queen Anne overrode, grabbing the King’s attention with a light hand and a merry voice. “King Charles will be green with envy. No Englishwoman could ever hope to stand against your Musketeers, yet you can boast three French ladies who could trounce his guard in moments.” 

King Louis looked thrilled at the idea. Tréville loved his queen. 

“They have not been tested-,”

“I took the liberty of seeing to that,” Tréville cut in, deeply enjoying his moment of triumph. “Well, I tested Athos and Aramis. I made Victore test Porthos. My old bones can only take so much of a beating. I can attest that they are fit for service,” Or would be soon. He still wanted to see Porthos with her schiavona as well as the extent of their proficiency with firearms. But that was not a matter to be brought up here. 

“Surely three women who will not even reveal their Christian names to us are not to be trusted,” Richelieu countered even as the King’s face glazed over in thought.

“Many of my men work under alias,” Tréville parried. “As do yours, I believe. They seek simple lives with clear purpose after lives full of deception and intrigue in the court. It’s just so that they would want to leave their old identities behind as well. It gives them a chance to redeem themselves in their own eyes and gives his Majesty a force full of loyal, devoted, and decreed soldiers, which I believe we can all appreciate. If we demand their Christian names, then we must ask it of every man in our regiments, which I can guarantee will lead to a mass exodus from our ranks.” 

Richelieu glared daggers into him for that. This entire venture had started as a way to humiliate Tréville and his Musketeers, but now he could see the Cardinal rapidly losing control of the situation. Tréville could not keep back a smirk from overtaking his lips. 

“It is decided,” King Louis commanded, slapping the sides of his ornate chair in emphasis. He rose to his feet, clearly done with the audience. No matter Richelieu’s reservations, he had no more time to present them. “They will be commissioned when we return to Paris. I trust you to see to the details until then, Tréville.” 

“Of course, your Majesty.” 

He bowed low as his sovereigns left the room, fighting the urge to outright cackle as he heard Richelieu storm after them.

“What just happened?” he heard Aramis demand the moment the door closed. Rising, he took in the stunned looks on all their faces. Athos' eyes seemed stuck to the now empty chairs before her while Porthos’ face was busy taking on a deep reddish hue. Aramis rubbed at her back in absentminded comfort while her own face reflected her disbelief. 

Tréville smiled at them. His ladies did not appear used to being outmaneuvered so blatantly, if their gobsmacked looks were anything to go by. 

“Welcome to the Musketeers, ladies." 

*

In time, Tréville liked to think they all established a comfortable equilibrium. The first year had been an utter catastrophe, but the entire regiment had come out of it all stronger and closer for it, his ladies included. His instincts had never proven accurate in the way of political or personal decisions, but he could always rely on them when it came to recruiting soldiers, and that proved no exception for his ladies. Over the passing of the years, he found he disregarded their genders completely when entrusting them with tasks or missions. But every once in a while they managed to shock him. 

Athos, with her extensive knowledge of courtly habits and perfected impression of a blank stone wall when others approached her, was Tréville’s usual choice of lieutenant when visiting their Majesties. She understood the finer political points that often eluded him, and had a subtleness to her that managed to terrify most of the courtiers. She also, amazingly enough, did not get lost in the palace. Something that Tréville was still unable to boast himself. 

Typically, she would arrive with her hair in a strict single braid trailing down her spine and her shape hidden under her jacket and wide breeches. Her boots would be just polished enough to pass inspection and her rapier and pistol in plain sight around her hips.

That was not how she appeared right now. 

“What is that?” he demanded flatly, eying the delicate confection Athos was dressed in. The skirts were a multitude of silk dyed in Musketeer blue with fleur-de-lis stitched in golden thread throughout. The bodice was gold lace layered over more blue silk and the entire thing was pulled incredibly tight around her curves with the sleeves starting just off her shoulders. They were narrow going down her arms but belled out at her elbows to end at her fingertips, the cuffs turned back to show off more golden lace in the lining. Her dark mass of hair was swept up in an artful knot, leaving her collarbone and shoulders bare save for a simple golden crucifix at her neck. He recognized traces of Porthos’ kohl around her eyes and her lips were touched with the deep red stain that Aramis used when she wanted to make the Cardinal uncomfortable. 

In short, Athos looked every inch the noblewoman he suspected her to be. In the shock of it all it took him far too long to realize that, even with her voluminous skirts, her sword belt was still buckled around her waist, her pistol strapped in her holster, and her other accruements still about her person. 

“Do you like it?” she asked in a flat voice, swishing back and forth in place to emphasis the heavy rustle of silk. 

“I’d like an explanation more.” 

“The Queen commissioned it from Constance,” she replied. “The proceeds from it will keep Madame Bonacieux in house and hearth for the rest of the year, at least. Not to mention the commissions she’ll earn from one afternoon of me flouncing around like this.”

Tréville bit back any reply to that. Constance Bonacieux was a sensitive topic between he and his ladies. Whenever M. Bonacieux had came by with his lovely wife and his latest round of swatches, his ladies watched them with suspicious, silent eyes from across the courtyard. M. Bonacieux had not appeared to approve of their presence, so it seemed for the best they avoided each other. 

Until one day, when Aramis had casually linked her arm through Constance’s. Leading her away from her husband, she had begun chatting vapidly about local court gossip, which instantly set Tréville on edge. Aramis only dithered like that when she was conning someone out of something she wanted. M. Bonacieux had protested the theft of his wife right up until he had run into Athos, who’s scowl could have sent the devil scurrying. Porthos had taken him by the scruff of the neck and sent him reeling out of the garrison gates.

Constance stayed in the barracks that night, sequestered away with his ladies in the cluster of rooms set aside for them. If Tréville listened closely through the night, he could hear faint sobbing overlaid with soothing voices. 

“You have the pleasure of commanding three women with possibly the worst history in France when it comes to men. We know what we’re looking for,” was all Athos had explained on the topic when asked later. 

When M. Bonacieux had disappeared a month later while traveling a well known trade route, Tréville knew better than to ask. But he did have to admit Constance had always looked happier after that. She was often visiting the garrison, sometimes helping Aramis wade through Athos’ unruly hair, or walking with Porthos through the morning markets. Her time had become more pressed now that she had taken control of her husband’s textile business, but she always came back. 

He had made his feeling clear on the whole matter. And his ladies had made their thoughts on his feelings even clearer. Constance seemed to bring out the lioness in all three of them, and Tréville knew when to pick his battles. 

Now, as Athos wore a gown that most likely cost more than he paid his soldiers in a year simply to promote Constance’s name among court, he was faced with evidence of Athos’ compassionate heart, something she often tried her best to hide. 

“She does good work,” was all he said in the end. He could not tell her she looked beautiful. It was not that he did not, but that she would never believe the words from his mouth. In the little ways that she acted, Tréville saw that someone had managed to convince her that she was not a woman worthy of praise. It hurt something deep within him to know that someone had wounded one of his ladies so deeply. But whoever he was, Tréville was at least grateful Athos had survived him, and was able to recognize his like. 

And if Tréville ever managed to work the name of that someone out of her, he would make sure the man bled for the damage he had caused. Though he was fairly sure he would have to line up behind Porthos, Aramis and the rest of the men of the Musketeers first. 

Athos tapped at his breastplate with the tip of her fingernail (buffed and polished to a shine), making the metal sing. 

“Let’s not keep their Majesties waiting. I’m sure the Queen is looking forward to seeing her money well spent.” 

Athos stayed at his side for the rest of the day, absolutely terrifying anyone foolish enough to come within ten feet of her line of sight. But she did take a moment to show off Constance’s work to the queen, smiling slightly at the other woman’s delighted expression. The gown was a periodic companion from then on, brought out for special occasions and grandiose celebrations, or when Athos needed to prove a point by crushing a loudmouthed courtier under the heel of her boot while her skirts brushed against his face. 

Then there was Aramis. Cheerful, beautiful, cunning Aramis, who had the attention span of a butterfly and felt a constant need to be active. Tréville felt confident he had never encountered a better marksmen, and she showed flashes of brilliance when confronted with tactical challenges in the field. He often preferred her at his side when having to interact with Richelieu or the veritable army of ambassadors that circled the court since her ability to read intentions and desires at a glance often gave him the upper hand in their dealings. 

However, Tréville had quickly learned that Aramis grew bored when left to her own devices, and that boredom manifested in very odd ways. Sometimes, she would disappear for a handful of days to play as the spoiled mistress of a bored, handsome noblemen or a courtly damsel idolized by a gentry knight or a mysterious woman of the night to a rugged corsair, and later return to the garrison laden down with new treasures and secrets to share. Other times, she would sit still as a statue as sermon after sermon echoed down the halls of Notre-Dame. And still other times, she would sweep through the garrison in search of things to fix. He had lost count of the times he had arrived to find every musket and pistol from the armory laid out in the courtyard as she methodically cleaned them, or in the stables mending tack and shoeing horses, or scaling the walls in search of rotted mortar and crumbling brinks to patch. 

So, after a sweltering July passed with only simple escort missions and a lack of political intrigue amongst a sluggish court, Tréville knew he should not have been surprised. However, as he took in the long common table in the courtyard, usually covered with leftover scraps from a meal and riddled with holes from when his men used it for target practice, he had to gawk at the seemingly endless rows of bottles, each containing a different color of nail dye. Aramis sat at the center of the madness, carefully applying a layer of golden hued dye to her nails with a delicate cloth. She had shed many of her layers in the summer heat, wearing only a loose, pale yellow shirt with a wide collar that brushed at her shoulders and hinted at her corset underneath along with a pair of light weight leggings. Her boots lay in a heap at her bare feet. 

“I’m bored,” she explained at his exasperated expression, blowing lightly across her fingertips to speed the drying process. “The Egyptian ambassador’s wife had her nails done up like this. And if I happened to express an interest in the fashion, her Majesty was gracious enough to indulge me.” 

Tréville wished the Queen would hurry up and have a daughter so she could have someone else to dot upon besides his ladies. They already got away with far more than a King’s Musketeer should with the favor of the royal couple behind them without overt bribery and gift giving.

But as Aramis shifted in her seat, he caught sight of a fresh scar that grazed across the top of her shoulder, a memento from a mission some months ago that had teetered on the edge of disaster if not for his ladies' quick thinking and willingness to bleed for their success. He had ordered them away from the matter, but they had overridden him and done what they had felt was needed. And that, he realized, was the paradox of their situation: King Louis wanted pretty dolls with swords and pistols to show off at court, while Queen Anne wanted standard bearers for her causes and glimpses into a life she could never lead. Tréville wanted soldiers who displayed bloodlust and rationale in equal measure. But his ladies were not soldiers, or dolls, or figureheads. They were only exactly what they wanted to be.

“This seems excessive,” he commented as he brushed his hand over the bottle tops. Rich reds and glittering golds, stunning silvers and bold blacks jumped out against the dark wood, one to go with any persona Aramis decided to wear. “What use does a soldier have for such finery?”

“I’m going to remind you of that the next time you wear your parade armor to the palace."

“I would rather you didn’t.” Tréville hated his parade armor, which made him look like a particularly ornate toy soldier. 

“Give us a mission that would last for longer than a day and I won’t say a word,” Aramis bargained as she shot him a cheeky look through her eyelashes. Tréville barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. 

“Missions are given when the need arises for those best suited for them, Aramis,” he reminded her. “Not because you’re bored.” 

“That is a completely impractical way of keeping me entertained, Captain. I shall have to--my lovely!” 

Craning her neck around Tréville, Aramis’ face blossomed into a smile he only ever saw her direct at her sisters. Porthos, looking decidedly tired after her tour of guard duty during one of the King’s all night celebrations, barely spared a glance for Aramis’ new collection as she passed. She did, however, brush a hand over her sister’s hair as she passed, purposely ruffling it out of the haphazard knot that had been containing it. The rest of the men who filtered in from the night guard headed for the barracks but once she stole some bread from the kitchen, Porthos returned to Aramis’ side and kicked out the bench enough to stretch out on it. Resting her head against her sister’s thigh, she let out a grunt at Aramis poked at her. 

“This,” she said, holding up a deep red cream that clung to the sides of its bottle like fresh blood. “Would look fantastic on you, darling.” 

“No,” Porthos replied without looking at it. 

“I’m hearing a lot of that word today,” Aramis commented, sending Tréville another sidelong look. 

“I will send you out soon,” Tréville promised, smiling fondly in spite of himself. “In the meantime, try not to rot your fingernails off. I hear that makes it challenging to hold a sword.”

Eventually, Tréville got used to seeing a layer of dye over Aramis’ nails. Even when she was covered in blood, dirt, and sweat, they would be bright spots of color against the stock of her musket or the hilt of her rapier. Aramis always managed to shine, no matter how grim her surroundings. 

And Porthos. Tréville feared he entirely forgot the most about Porthos' true gender when she would barrel head first into the nearest brawl, feet quick and fists ready. She wore no fanciful clothes or dainty ornaments, her only concession to her nature being a ring of kohl around her eyes like warpaint and a tight corset under her shirt to keep her ample chest reigned in. She was a ruthless fighter who never failed to put others through their paces, and showcased the very best of how strength and speed, defense and aggression needed to be combined to win a fight. The violence of her past was played out in her scars, faint lines etched into her hands, her shoulders, her back, even one through her eyebrow down to her cheek, and she knew a hard life in a way very few in his regiment could claim. 

Yet, she was a happy soul at heart. Her sisters had taken quite a while to adjust to life as a Musketeer (and to the idea that they would not be summarily rejected at a moment’s notice) but Porthos had thrived at it from the beginning. All the struggles and pains she endured had led her to a place where she knew she belonged, with the family she had always wanted. 

He had not noticed the pattern at first, but he would occasionally find Porthos laying on a few well-padded sacks in a small off-shoot of the garrison courtyard that was flooded with sunlight throughout the day and warm even in the winter. Away from the noise and the strong odors that inevitably arose from a military training yard, she would grumble and snarl and refuse to move for a day or two before suddenly reverting back to her cheerful self as if nothing had happened. Tréville had been concerned about it until Aramis had helpfully pointed him towards a calendar. 

He had not thought a man of his age could still turn as red as he had. 

“But…you-you both-,”

Athos had simply rolled her eyes and left him to flounder. Aramis took mercy on him, though. 

“We all go through it differently,” she explained. “Porthos just needs a day or so to get past the worst of it.”

“Every month?” 

“As regular as the moon.” 

For months afterward, he had been troubled by the notion that the whole matter could put them at risk while in the field, but it never seemed to affect their work. Now that idea just seemed laughable. 

He found Porthos curled up on a thickly padded lounging chair Constance had obtained for her some time ago for these occasions. She was clutching a steaming goblet to her chest and a hot water skin lay draped across her abdomen. 

“Going to hide out for the rest of the day?” he asked, always having a Captain’s need to check on his fallen soldiers. Porthos cracked an eye open to glare at him. 

“You lookin’ to send us out?”

“Nothing lined up for any of you."

“Then I plan to lay here and not move ’til Judgement Day, thanks all the same." 

“Of course.” Tréville agreed. He waved a hand at the goblet in her hands. "What’s that?"

“Chocolate. Her Majesty said it would help.”

Of course she had. Tréville truly needed to have a conversation with her about trying to bribe her favorite Musketeers away from him. 

“Does it?”

Porthos took a huge gulp from the goblet, intentionally slurping it as she went. Setting it aside, he watched as her entire body relaxed and a blissful smile overtook her face. 

“The Lord saw fit to grant me little mercies among His many miseries.”

“Blasphemous too, I see.”

“Can’t be I’m the first woman to curse His name in times like this. I’m sure He understands after all these years.” 

“Truly. I witnessed some of the men giving Félix a hard time about a blackened eye in the courtyard.” It had been one of the reasons Tréville had gone looking for her. Her handy work was easy to spot after a time.

Porthos snorted, seeming to exude annoyance without actually bothering to move. 

“Stupid git, that one. Won’t make it to his commission if he doesn’t learn to shut his mouth.” 

“Or at least learn to count?”

“Couldn’t hurt. His swordsmanship’s still horrid, though. He won’t take the lessons Athos gives him.” 

“Well, no one can claim she’s a kind teacher."

“Or him willing to learn,” Porthos met his eyes again, her gaze intent. “I know he’s a Duke’s son, Captain, but he’s a fool if he doesn’t listen to Athos. And Aramis nearly broke his fingers when they went wondering up her leg. He doesn’t get along with Sarge or any of the stablehands, either. Ain’t a good sign, that.” 

Porthos very rarely pulled her punches, especially when it came to things she was concerned about. It had begun as a less perfect system, with her simply picking out recruits who troubled her and pushing at them until they snapped and left of their own volition. But over time as more trust was formed between he and his ladies, she would instead point them out to him to address. Tréville was under no illusions: she would take care of it if he did not, but at least she put enough faith in him to attempt to rectify the problem first. 

“I’ll meet with him,” Tréville offered. Porthos’ warning could come to nothing (she had sometimes seen threats where there were none) but more often than not the recruits that earned her reservations turned into hot-headed liabilities. And liabilities were a danger to his men and ladies while on a mission if nothing was done about them. 

“Thank you,” she grumbled, curling back in on herself. “Now go away so I can wallow in peace.” 

Tréville left her to it, though it did not escape his notice that Athos and Aramis disappeared at times throughout the day to check with her. 

Richelieu often commented that he coddled his Musketeers like a mother does her children, and Tréville had to admit he saw the truth in those words daily. But now he had three intelligent, capable, and strong daughters among his hundreds of well-trained and rock-headed sons. 

Not to say his ladies were angels. Far from it, they regularly gave him palpitations. Athos would drink like a fish when something set her off, and he lived in constant terror of the day she was attacked and overtaken while stumbling home from one of her worser bouts. She was the smallest of her sisters, and often the most caviler with her own life. Aramis’ reputation was in tatters days after she entered Paris, and she cared not one wit about it, even though Tréville did. He knew of the sneers and slurs it garnered her; of the forceful offers she received in dark corners, because they all assumed she would never say no; of the eyes that never stopped following her. Porthos continued to display deference to others of high rank like a cat wore shoes, and Tréville saw in them the anger and hatred at a woman they perceived had risen far above her station. The harassment she was subjected to in turn never failed to set Tréville’s teeth on edge. 

The most ridiculous part was that he knew his fears were unwarranted. Every adversary who decided to set themselves up against his ladies were ripped apart like freshly roasted meat in the teeth of hounds. They danced, and laughed, and twirled, but they also clawed and fought and bled for what they thought was worth their effort. They cajoled when they needed to, and threatened when it was called for. They were the furies and the sirens: the amazons of His Majesty King Louis XIII of France. They were the ladies of wrath and ruin, come to burn Paris down for its sins, and only withheld their fire out of misplaced affection for him and the rest of the Musketeers. After all, all for one and one for all.

It would always astound him how people could be ashamed of their daughters. God knew he never was. 

*

Looking back, Tréville was glad his ladies' latest mission had taken them outside of Paris. He missed them when he reported to their Majesties, but Richelieu was in fine form today. He could have held one of them back, but not all three at once. 

"It's unseemly," Richelieu demanded, a buzzing fly in the King's ear Tréville disparately wanted to swat. "Guarding his royal Majesty is too important to be left to mere women.” 

Mere women. Tréville bit his tongue rather than rise to the Cardinal’s bait. He had seen the man’s eyes following Aramis through the halls of the palace countless times now, lust and anger warring in equal measure in his eyes. Aramis waved off his concerns, but it did not stop Tréville from added it to the list of reasons why he did not trust Richelieu. 

"They amuse me, Cardinal," the King commented airily, distractedly turning a ring over and over on his knuckle. "They are a novelty, after all. Why, Victor looked utterly scandalized during his last visit."

"With all due respect your Majesty, novelties come and go. I beg you to reconsider and send these women away. Surround yourself with proven men.” 

"My ladies had proven themselves at every turn, Cardinal," Tréville growled. He would take no slander to their name, nor their excellence at their duty. "Far more in fact, than your Red Guards have."

"You cannot hope to compare-," 

"They shall stay," the Queen overrode, her voice commanding even as her face stayed serene. "I find myself comforted by their presence, Cardinal. They are Musketeers in their souls, no matter the bodies God blessed them with.” 

For all she wanted to steal his ladies away for her own form of Queen’s Guard, Tréville appreciated her support. Her attention kept the King’s more fickle favor shining on them. 

“Surely the men of your regiment find it undignified to fight alongside women,” the Cardinal pointed out as he turned on Tréville, not willing to let the argument go. 

Tréville shrugged easily: they had at first. His men had complained, and bullied, and harassed his ladies relentlessly until Porthos had punched the teeth out of an especially insulting one. The fight had left her with a pair of busted knuckles and him with four broken ribs, a dislocated kneecap, and a shattered collarbone. Tréville had managed to intervene before she had taken his eye out with a fork.

The next one got a musket ball through his hand when he raised it against Aramis. The one after that got Athos’ name carved into his chest by the tip of her blade. 

Others challenged them, and his ladies changed off between them with an ease born of extreme comfort and faith interwoven among the three of them. Tréville had only just convinced them to stop the maiming, but each one of them made sure to leave their mark. Soon, nearly every other man in his regiment bore a series of three horizontal scars scoured across his skin. 

Tréville had despaired at ever finding a place among the Musketeers for them. No matter his efforts, his men had hollered and complained bitterly and his ladies took to systematically humiliating and shaming them at every available opportunity. Peace lasted only as long as it took for some reckless fool to get drunk and earn himself three scars upon his cheek. 

When a training mission to Savoy was being planned, Tréville had seen a chance to address the festering wound within his Musketeers. Athos and Porthos had nearly brought the garrison down in their fury when they had learned Aramis was to be sent out without them, but Tréville had (barely) held his ground. Together his ladies were an undeniable force of nature, but apart they were only pieces of a whole. Competent, single-minded, extremely efficient pieces, but not nearly as intimidating when on their own. He had hoped to integrate them individually into the unit since it was becoming increasingly obvious they had no plans of yielding an inch of their hard-won pride and the men of his regiment were growing more hostile with each passing day. 

Then the King had asked him for the location of his Musketeers, and he abandoned them because his king had commanded it of him. 

Only Aramis, beautiful, vibrant, and blood-soaked Aramis, had come back. Porthos and Athos had probably killed a dozen horses getting to Savoy when word reached them of the massacre. Tréville had let them go without a word of protest, even though he knew there was a chance they would not come back. If Aramis had perished in the bloody forrest, he knew his last two ladies would abandon the regiment in a heartbeat to find her killers. But news arrived a week later: twenty dead, one deserter, and one living Musketeer with long dark hair and silver stained nails. 

He had ridden out to meet them at the city limits and saw her clinging to Porthos as they shared a mount, all three of them meandering toward Paris like waves toward a beach. Her skin was sallow and her luscious hair hung in dank locks around her face. Her eyes, usually full of dancing energy, stared out with empty stillness and seemed to take in nothing. It was all so horribly wrong. But the worst part as Tréville saw it, was her trembling. Her hands had constantly shaken for months after, and as a consequence her nails remained bare of bright and glittering colors. Treville's guilt bit harder and harder every time he caught sight of them in their dull, unpampered state. 

Athos and Porthos, completely disoriented by the void left without their vivid sister, floundered between staying faithfully at Aramis’ side and getting as far away from the garrison as possible for hours on end. They seemed to have no idea how to cope with her unresponsive bouts of depression, and the stress of it was quickly building on them both like layers of rust on iron. Athos drank constantly into the evenings and Porthos picked fights with anyone who so much as crossed her shadow, and tempers flared at the slightest provocation. 

Tréville did his best to help where he could, and Aramis slowly started to smile again, to talk to her sisters again. But the emptiness was still there, as was the shaking. He would sometimes check in on them only to find Aramis sobbing quietly into Porthos’ shoulder as the other stared down at her with scared and worried eyes, or curled up in bed while a bewildered Athos pet cautiously at her hair. 

This continued for over a month, and Tréville had dreaded every moment of it. But when he walked into the garrison one morning, he came across a scene that melted what little of his soul that had not been raked by guilt. At the common table, Sarge was carefully applying a dusky brownish red to Aramis' nails, movements steady as he rubbed in the dye. He kept her slender hand clasped in his own grizzled ones, shifting her fingers this way and that to methodically cover the surface of her nails, muttering as he went. 

Tréville was quick to lurk in the storage area under his balcony for a better view, and strained his ears to catch the words. 

“Ain’t nothing to be ashamed of, after all. Ya did what’cha could,” he was saying, and while his voice was anything but gentle his words were soft. 

“I see them in my sleep,” Aramis whispered, her gaze not rising from the tabletop. 

“And ya always will,” Sarge replied gruffly. “And sometimes their faces’ll change, and you’ll see your girls or some new recruits, or the Cap’in. But they’ll be less, the more you go on.”

Aramis nodded, her face torn. Tréville glanced across the courtyard and found Porthos and Athos staring at Sarge like a pair of predators watching a crafty and intriguing piece of pray. They were content to sit back and watch this unfold, but would not hesitate to step in and rip him apart if they where provoked. There was also a hint of puzzled desperation to them as well, as if they could not understand why Aramis was responding to this but willing to endure it for her happiness. 

Aramis smiled at Sarge when he finished; not the sharp, flirtatious smile she used on the Cardinal or the brittle one she had taken to giving others in the last month but a soft, welcoming one that lit her face up. 

“Thank you,” she said, kissing Sarge on the cheek as she rose to her feet. Tréville slowly came forward as she sashayed over to her sisters across the courtyard. 

"That was a kindness," he commented, settling down next to the old Musketeer. Sarge predated even Tréville, and had forgotten more about soldiering than Tréville would ever hope to know. The man grumbled and growled at the praise, a blush fighting its way onto his face. 

"It stopped her whimpering over it. Can't see why she cares so much," the old bear groused, but Tréville could see the fondness starting to grow in his eyes.

“Why did you do it?” 

"Marsac abandoned them," Sarge muttered, watching as Aramis showed off his work to Athos while laughing at something Porthos said. "She stayed. She fought."

"They all would have," Tréville replied. Because it was true. Sarge’s lips twitched downward but he did not dispute him. 

The regiments began to change in odd little ways after that. His men stopped shunning his ladies and instead brought them into their circle. While on missions, they began to look to Athos for guidance and protection, because she always brought them home safe. Watching her take command of larger and larger portions of the unit while in the field and succeeding in mission after mission in turn earned her even more of the regiment’s trust. They began to learn from Porthos, rather than attempting to break her, and were rewarded with learning to better defend themselves from the type of unsavory souls who did not care for a gentleman’s fight. They laughed with Aramis, drawing the rich, rambunctious woman they all remembered back out of her shell little by little. And each time her eyes danced or her voice rang out, his ladies were bound tighter into the Musketeers. 

Tréville was rather proud of his sons. They now protected their sisters’ honor and dignity in the face of cruel spite, and bragged on them constantly to other units. It became a badge of honor rather than shame to be adorned with their three scars. An unofficial initiation. You weren’t truly a Musketeer until you had received a bloody kiss from each of their ladies. 

"My lads and ladies care not for the gender of their comrades, merely for the strength of their arm and the fortitude of their spirit. They have never failed in their duty, nor will they ever," Tréville told Richelieu, very carefully keeping his face neutral.

“Very cultured of you, Tréville,” King Louis praised, but they could all tell his attention had already diverted to the fair morning just out the window on his right. He had plans to go hunting today, and hated when he was forced into endless audiences instead. Taking the unspoken dismissal, both he and Richelieu took their leave of the royal couple.

Tréville waited for as long as it took them to move into the empty hallway outside of the throne room before rounding on Richelieu. 

“I know what you want, your Excellency.” Tréville did not have proof, but he had strong suspicions. The man rarely harped on something this long unless there was a prize at the end of the line for him. 

“I can’t imagine what you’re prattling on about, Tréville.” 

“You’re thinking if you can uproot my ladies from the Musketeers, you can swoop in and take them for your own uses,” Tréville accused. “Your predilection for employing those with limited options who you can keep indebted to you is better known than you think. Stay away from them.” 

“Paranoia fits you ill, Captain,” Richelieu dismissed. Tréville privately acknowledged that all he had was instinct and a jumble of raging protective emotions, but that was enough for him. He would not allow Richelieu to force his way into Aramis’ bed, or throw Porthos back into the gutter when she had worked so hard to rise above it. Would not allow him to coerce Athos back to whatever it was she was running from.

“Call it the finely tuned intuition of a soldier, your Excellency. Many of my Musketeers have it.” 

“Your Musketeers run rampant over all common decency and law,” Richelieu shot back, the light of the devout in his eyes. “They disregard order for chaos, discipline for adventuring! France would be well served with their disbandment, starting with your wh-,”

“Enough!” Tréville ordered, his voice like thunder against the empty corridor. “I will not tolerate another word from you. Keep your plots and intrigues confined to the court. Involve me if you must, but if you even hint at intentions towards _any_ of my regiment, I will not hesitate to come for you.” 

Richelieu’s look would have been a snarl on anyone less imposing, but as it was he stared down his nose at Tréville, dipping distain and aggression. 

“You could never topple me.”

“I can damn us both if I put my mind to it. Speak all you would like of chaos and order, law and unrest, but the real difference between us, Cardinal, is that I would happily condemn myself for mine own, while you would just has gladly consign yours to the flames to save yourself. And they all know it.” 

Tréville did not fool himself into thinking he had silenced the Cardinal completely, but as he watched the other man storm off, he liked to think he earned his lads and ladies a few months of respite from the man after that. 

*

They appeared on her doorstep late into the night, and Constance could tell they had been running through hell and back. The kohl that lined Porthos’ eyes were smudges instead of the steady lines she usually wore, and while Constance was used to seeing Aramis’ lips stained red she knew blood when she saw it. Athos’ gorgeous, wild hair that usually tumbled down her waist had been hacked short in jagged, ugly cuts from her shoulders to her chin. 

What alarmed her the most however, was the young man sagging against Porthos’ shoulder. At first, all she saw was a mass of dark hair over a dusty brown jacket, however as he tilted his head toward the light of the door, she saw the familiar face of her new boarder. 

“Who’s hurt?” she demanded as she stepped aside. There was no point asking what had happened when there were more important things to worry about. Porthos shoved d’Artagnan through the door first, keeping a firm grasp on his collar as he stumbled across her threshold. Aramis shooed Athos in after them, smiling a shadow of her cheeky grin as she past Constance. 

“The lad took the worst of it,” she said. “He rushed straight into the fray, looking for Gaudet.” 

“He was mine,” d’Artagnan mumbled, falling over his own feet more than once even with Porthos’ guiding hands. It was clear he was not well off, but Constance still found herself hesitating to go to him. The butterflies he managed to set free in her stomach frightened her, and she had experienced more than enough of fear already. 

She clamped down on all of that moments later. d’Artagnan was not a candidate for her affections, and following through with lust would be sheer idiocy. Besides, if the way her friends hovered over him was any indication, he would soon be under the spell of the ladies of the Musketeers.

She loved the girls, but they sometimes made it very hard to shine in their shadows. 

d’Artagnan’s wounds were messy, but thankfully not life-threatening. She was able to bind them relatively quickly, though she credited most of that to Porthos keeping a firm grip on him when he tried to worm away, insisting all the while that he was fine. 

“If that sword thrust had gone any deeper, we’d be bringing back a corpse rather than a wounded fellow,” Athos finally snapped, eyes wide under the layer of fringe that now brushed over the apples of her cheeks. “Learn to parry properly or never pick up a sword again.” Aramis absentmindedly took hold of her hand and interlocked their fingers, pulling Athos’ attention back to her. 

Constance was not one for wine, but she had learned to carry an emergency supply after the first time they had shown up on her doorstep like this. Grabbing a bottle from the cupboard, she handed it to Athos wordlessly. Porthos shot her a grateful look for that, her face so worn and tired that Constance felt the need to help ease her burdens by any means possible. 

d’Artagnan fell silent after that, letting Constance finish bandaging him in peace, though he did watch her with eyes that did funny things to her concentration. Once the last of the bandages were fitted around his torso and shoulder, Porthos drifted back to her sisters, settling in on the bench next to Athos and letting Aramis drape herself over the pair of them. Like they so often did, the three of them proceeded to descend into a place where only they existed, blithely ignoring everyone else in the room. Constance, used to this behavior by now, simply let them be and started pondering ideas for a decent, if bland, meal. They all looked starving. 

“You told me you didn’t know any Musketeers,” d’Artagnan finally said, drawing her attention back to him. Constance resisted the urge to pick at her nails—it had been a horrible habit she had developed not long after her marriage, and she was convinced it had been what had originally raised concern among the girls all those years ago. 

“I told you I was not acquainted with any men who professed to be Musketeers,” she snapped back instead. Had she known he would cause this much trouble, she would have followed her first instincts and left him to bleed out in the market after he had run into her. But something she did not wish to examine had kicked at her heart, and she had ended up bringing home a man who’s very glance sent heat flashing through her body and horrible ideas sprouting in her mind. But her wits had not entirely abandoned her, and when he had asked about Musketeers she had picked her words carefully.

d’Artagnan had told her a group of men claiming to be Musketeers had been responsible for his father’s death. Not three women whom Constance owed her very sanity too. She had clung to that small rationale as long as she could, right up until the idiot boy had stormed into Musketeer headquarters and, as far as she could tell, proceeded to plant his foot very solidly in his mouth at the sight of a trio of women instead of the hoard of renegades he was apparently expecting to find.

She did not know the whole story, but she did know that her friends seemed amused by d’Artagnan. Even now, Aramis would occasionally glance at him in a way that meant her mind was working on twelve different plans to tie him to them as tightly as she could manage. When Constance had that look turned towards her, she always felt a new and terrifying path open at her feet, waiting for her to take the first step. But watching it turned on d’Artagnan was a completely different and entertaining experience. 

“So this Gaudet, was he the one to kill d’Artagnan’s father?” she asked, curious about the end of the story that had left them all looking like something the cat dragged in. 

“Aye. He was trying to pass himself off as Captain Cornet gone rouge, but we found their bodies off the road to Chartres,” Aramis explained, crossing herself as Porthos leaned forward to rest her head in her folded arms and Athos took a long pull straight from the wine bottle. It was the closest they would come to mourning their fallen comrades. 

“Still don’t know why,” d’Artagnan groused, shifting to lay down on his back across the other bench running parallel to Constance’s table. 

“The Cardinal is looking to get the Musketeers disbanded,” Aramis explained, her eyes far away as she worked through a plot the rest of them could to see. “If he hangs a few along the way, it wouldn’t bother him terribly.”

“Then he can go ’round and snatch the ones still alive. Thinks he'll fill out his Red Guards with the better ones and throw the rest of us out on the streets,” Porthos grumbled, her shoulders slumping. Athos wordlessly reached out and brushed her hand against her sister’s cheek, smiling gently when Porthos glanced at her with beseeching eyes. 

“We’ll be fine,” she muttered. Aramis dropped her head onto Athos’ shoulder while looking at Porthos over it, and once again there was a circle created between them that no one else was privy to. 

Constance said nothing. Tréville had already told her about the Cardinal’s ambitions toward her friends, as well as their stubborn reluctance to see it. He had come to her in hopes that, if all else should fail, she would help them escape a man powerful enough to make France dance to whatever tune he set. She had thought about broaching the subject with them numerous times, but in the end she always kept back. She knew a fool’s task when she saw one: the rooms she kept aside for them were just one of many bolt holes and hideaways they had throughout Paris. Porthos knew the city inside and out, and could hide within its depths until the Rapture, taking her sisters with her. If the Cardinal wanted them, he would have to burn Paris down to do it. 

So, Constance let the matter lie and instead found some bread and sharp white cheese that would do nicely for a light meal.

“You gonna live, lad?” Porthos asked, kicking lightly at the bench d’Artagnan was stretched out on. He groaned at her and threw an arm over his face to hide from the world. With his wounds tended to, he did not seem far much worse for wear. But as she moved around the table, Constance caught sight of the rips and tears in Porthos’ jacket, and she quickly placed the plate of food down to get a better look.

“I don’t think I can salvage this,” she commented, running her hands over a notably nasty tear along the shoulder. “If I stitch it, it’ll just give the moment you strain your shoulders.”

“I told her the same thing,” Aramis agreed, tearing a piece off the bread. “She wouldn’t listen to me.” 

“’s fine. I’m attached to this one.” 

Constance rolled her eyes, even as she subtly checked her hands for any blood Porthos may have been trying to hide. “There’s no point becoming attached to clothing that I can replace for better quality at a good price. Nostalgia won’t keep you alive.” 

Porthos grumbled, but Athos tugged at her until she was laying down with her feet hanging off the end of the bench and her head in Athos’ lap. Aramis buried her fingers in Porthos’ hair and rubbed slow circles into her scalp, and within moments she was asleep. 

“A replacement would be appreciated ” Athos told Constance quietly. Beside her, Aramis’ movements were becoming more and more sluggish as her eyelids dropped. Soon enough, she was asleep as well, her soft breaths a quiet concert to d’Artagnan’s gentle snores across the table.

“I have beds upstairs,” Constance felt the need to point out. Athos could not shrug with Aramis’ head resting on her shoulder, but she hummed at the thought. 

“I’ll get them all up there in a while. Apologies for disturbing your evening.”

“It’s fine,” Constance replied, taking care to step lightly around them. She had enough to feed everyone in the morning, though she could use more fruits. She saw some wonderful apples in the market yesterday. 

She never minded being the safe haven for her friends. The place they could come and recover in when their wounds were bleeding and their spirits were low. They drove her crazy with their outright disregard for anything they did not feel suited them, and their at times needless defiance in the face of propriety, but she also could not imagine them any other way. 

Part of her, a part she was convinced was small and childish and unnecessary, was still ashamed at her breakdown at their feet. She was strong and she had never needed help with anything. If it was worth the effort, she would do it on her own and to the best of her abilities. She could carry a household, a well-off, but weak and distant husband, and a textile business on her shoulders and hold her head up high at the end of the day.

But she remembered curling up on the floor of their regiment rooms, sobbing her eyes out under a burden she had not been aware she had been carrying. Aramis had brushed her hair out and offered soft words and gentle touches to ease her. Porthos had been the solid wall at her back while she had shuddered and sobbed.

“It’s fine, darling,” Aramis had comforted, the only time she had ever used the pet names she usually reserved for her sisters. “Sometimes you have to break everything down to rebuild it better.” 

Throughout the evening, Athos had stayed in the corner, keeping prying eyes at bay and steadily working through bottle after bottle of murky wine. She seemed almost scared of Constance in this state, and it had not been until late into the night when she had finally spoken. 

“He wanted to hold complete power,” she muttered, eyes tracing the tears of wine against the sides of the bottle. "It was fine for now, you never had reason to defy him. But once you had he would have lashed out.” 

“He’s harmless,” Constance said. Part of her mind rebelling against the idea of her bumbling, stuffy husband being anything but an exasperating, sometimes endearing, child. “And completely helpless without me. He’s never raised his voice at me. Never forbid me from doing anything. Never struck me.”

“Neither did mine,” Athos said, clearly deep in her cups, and Constance felt Porthos and Aramis stiffen behind her. "Control isn’t always about abuse. The bruises he wants to leave are not the type to show on your skin. But they’re still there…still hurting...” 

Constance had wanted to know so much more; how had a woman with such mastery over herself ever been subject to someone else? How did she escape? Did he still haunt her? But Aramis had stepped between them at that moment, breaking Athos’ drunken ramblings. 

“Not now, my dove,” she had suggested lovingly. “Touch on that memory when you’re of a more sound mind."

Her words had been gentle but her eyes had been granite. Constance had let the matter drop, and kept the revelation close to her heart. She was not alone. It was alright to take the helping hand offered to her.

In turn, she offered herself as a shelter and a haven. She protected their blind sides and helped stitch them up when they needed a helping hand in return. And if ‘they’ started to include a Gascon farm boy with deep, dark eyes and a smile like an angel, as she suspected it may soon…

Constance shook the thought off, locking it away to never be dwelled on. Down that path lay danger and ruin. Determinedly not looking at the lovely, well-muscled form draped over her dinning bench, she bid Athos a good night and retreated to her room.

*

Athos had briefly roused her to shove her into bed, but Aramis did not properly wake up until dawn crawled in through the windows of Constance's house and Porthos left the bed to start her daily wonderings.

“Did I wake you?” Porthos asked as she tugged her shirt on.

“No,” Aramis muttered, stretching as Athos slept on like the dead beside her. Last night, she had shoved d’Artagnan into an overstuffed, high back chair in the corner and now the poor boy was slumped down in what looked to be the most uncomfortable position possible. He did not seem to mind though, if his quiet snoring was anything to go by. “My thoughts won’t let me sleep.”

Porthos held out a hand to her briefly, and she took a familiar comfort in the feel of their fingers interlocking together. Everything was fine now. With a quick squeeze, she released Porthos back to her morning and settled down into the sheets. She watched as her sister tied her spiraled curls back with a bandana and shrugged on her ripped jacket, making a mental note to remind Constance about finding a replacement. Maybe something better padded around her shoulders to protect against attacks to her upper back.

“What are your thoughts on the boy?” Aramis asked just as Porthos’ hand was about to touch the door handle. 

“He’s a handful. A clumsy, energetic, handful,” she replied, casting a glance toward the youth. “Reminds me of a puppy, really.” 

“I thought so myself,” Aramis agreed. “I do have to say I've always wanted a puppy.”

“They’re a lotta work.”

“But worth the effort.”

“‘m not a dog,” d’Artagnan growled from his corner, obviously still mostly asleep if his blurry eyes were anything to go by. 

“You’re not, lad,” Porthos agreed, reaching out and petting his hair out of his face, as he closed his eyes again at the touch. “But your sisters get to tease you. Deal with it.”

d’Artagnan’s eyes snapped open, instantly more awake than he had been a moment ago. He stared up at Porthos with a face full of baffled hope, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled for words so early in the morning. 

Aramis smiled as Porthos rolled her eyes, grasped his collar, and easily dragged him to his feet. 

“Come on, puppy. Farm boys like you are used to early mornings. Come explore with me and we'll leave these layabouts to wake up.” 

Aramis made a face at both of them as Porthos hustled them out the door, but did not dispute the claim. She raked her fingers gently through Athos’ shortened locks, easing her grumpy sister back into the realm of the waking. 

“Come now,” she muttered easily, waving off Athos’ attempts to shove her away and go back to sleep. “Let’s do something about this disaster.” 

Stumbling downstairs, Aramis sat a still dozing Athos down with a pair of sheers borrowed from Constance and did her best to even out the ragged mess her hair had become. Besides the quiet hums of appreciation from her sister every time she ran her fingers through the shorn strands, Athos said nothing. 

“What happened?” Constance finally asked. She was already dressed for the day and elbow deep in papers scattered across her tabletop, everything from contracts and bills from her textile business to lists and receipts from her household laid out before her. 

“One of Gaudet’s men grabbed it and pulled me back,” Athos explained slowly, tilting her head this way and that as Aramis worked. "I hacked it off so he couldn’t do it again.” 

“That’s a shame.”

“Porthos thought similar. She took his hand off for it.” 

Aramis smiled at the memory as Constance went back to her work. They fell into a comfortable silence for a while, with Aramis concentrating on her work and Athos struggling into coherent thoughts.

“There was something…familiar about this whole debacle,” she finally commented, her voice still soft with sleep. Her interest spiked, but Aramis did not pause in her movements, letting her sister come to terms with her thoughts herself. “Something grimy and lurking, just around the edges.” 

Aramis hummed as she set the sheers down. 

“We’ll keep a watch out, just like we always do,” she replied. “After all, we’ve got four sets of eyes now. Makes keeping a watch in all directions much easier.” 

Aramis was not worried. They would always have each other, and that had always been what mattered the most. Everything else was another adventure waiting for them to arrive.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!
> 
> So for the past month, my roommate has known this story by the name of "this fic I shouldn't be writing" since I have a Big Bang I really need to focus on finishing. But this story was just so much fun to write, and came so very easily *pets story*. I do want to write more, as there is a lot more head canon with all three of these ladies, but I don't know when it will come up, since my other fic demands my attention -.-
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed it as much as i did! 
> 
> As a side note, nail polish has been around since 3000 BC, however there's a huge gap in records on it until the 1900s, so I took some creative liberties with that gap, and have no claim that what i wrote is any way actuate for that time period. 
> 
> Link to the original prompt here:  
> http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/774.html?thread=819974#cmt819974


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